


A Whistle in the Catacombs

by BonesAndScales



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, Ghost Chiyoh, M/M, Sensuality, Supernatural Elements, The non sexual kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:54:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21621280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonesAndScales/pseuds/BonesAndScales
Summary: “You haven't changed a bit,” Hannibal says, his only display of surprise at her appearance, untouched by time.In which Chiyoh's time stopped ticking when Hannibal left the Lecter estate, and restarted when Will arrived.
Relationships: Chiyoh & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 79
Collections: #HanniBelles2019





	A Whistle in the Catacombs

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Cinnamaldeide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamaldeide/pseuds/Cinnamaldeide) for organising the HanniBelles fest, for beta'ing this fic, and for being a darling!
> 
> Inspired by [InfiniteCrisis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfiniteCrisis/pseuds/InfiniteCrisis)'s [post](https://crisisoninfintefandoms.tumblr.com/post/184160707917/tiggymalvern-crisisoninfintefandoms) about Chiyoh being dead/a ghost/vampire/zombie, because she looks way too young to have known Hannibal when he was a kid.
> 
> Chiyoh is not dead here, but remained sort of 'stuck in time'. In this fic, she was 30-something when Hannibal left/was taken from the estate, she stopped aging for like thirty/forty years until Will arrived and pulled her out of the estate.
> 
> Enjoy!

The first step out of the estate feels like rebirth.

A shaky breath pushes past her lips. Pain hums in her chest as her still heart flutters to life once more.

Freedom, at last.

The cold of the night caresses her cheeks for the first time in over thirty years. She flexes her fingers. The gloves stick to her skin. Their cold leather will finally warm up under her touch.

Will Graham's footsteps follow hers in a cacophony of dead leaves, screaming under his heavy boots.

Hannibal's footsteps never made a sound, treading gently through underbrush. Deer-like.

A hunter’s gait.

“Where to?” Will Graham asks.

She has no destination to name, only Hannibal's pull to follow.

“South. There's a train station not too far from here.”

* * *

Hannibal is close.

Will Graham will find him with or without her help.

“Is he in Florence?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you tell me you knew?”

She did not.

“I told you there are means of influence other than violence.”

Will Graham's eyebrows pinch in confusion, still unable—or perhaps unwilling—to understand.

It is indulgence more than anything that makes her lean forward, eyelids sliding closed.

It has been an eternity since she last felt lips against her own. The touch is chaste. Tender. The warmth is lasting, even as she leans away, even as she pushes him over the railing.

* * *

Whoever branded Hannibal did not care to treat the wound. The mark is deep, will take months to heal. The scar will outlive him.

Once the bandage is secured around his torso, she taps his flank twice to bid him to stand up, as she used to when he was a child.

She packs away the medical supplies, her attention always divided between the task at hand and him—by habit, again; Hannibal as a boy always picked at his scabs—as he puts on the fresh clothes she brought him. His movements are not particularly slow, but careful, diligent.

“You haven't changed a bit,” he says, his only display of surprise at her appearance, untouched by time.

“I can't say the same for you.” Though she does not smile, she knows the fondness is clear to him.

Over thirty years have passed, all that is left of the Hannibal she knew is the childlike wonder and curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

But it is enough. Under this façade of cold elegance, there is still the wide-eyed boy who marvelled at the endless expanse of beauty around him, in the bloom of Lady Murasaki's garden, in the red blanket of leaves covering the estate in autumn, in the last flicker of life leaving Cesar's eye when they had to put him down.

“What happened to you?” he asks. He does not bother buttoning the shirt all the way up, leaving a few buttons undone to shrug on the jacket instead.

“I remained in a moment in time where I felt safe.”

“The estate isn't safe.”

“It is for me.”

“You were hiding.”

“I was waiting.”

“For what?”

_For what?_

Even after all these years, she has no answer. But with her time reclaimed, she can now find purpose.

The silence stretches, only disturbed by the ruffle of clothes.

Fully dressed, Hannibal steps closer—deer-like; a hunter’s gait—not enough to touch but enough for the shreds of heat she perceives to cut through the cold stillness of the house.

He towers over her now, a head, almost two. It is strange, having to look up at him when once she had to crouch down for their eyes to meet.

He leans in close. Too close. Frozen muscle memory thaws at the sudden proximity and her fingers grab his chin in a familiar movement, holding him still.

The tilt of her head, though, is entirely new, and entirely hers.

Hannibal's cheek prickles. She does not like the feeling against her own cheek, but the scratch against her fingertips is pleasant. Her hold is firm, and with her other hand she delicately strokes his stubbled jaw.

He keeps perfectly still, until she releases him. She feels more than sees him take a whiff of the cold air, parsing through the smells of winter night until he finds her underneath.

“You smell like home,” he says.

But she is not. Hannibal has found a new home, right now deep in restless, dreamless slumber. A precarious home that might never let him in.

“You locked me in that home.”

“Will you forgive me?”

“I've forgiven crueler acts from you.”

“I've never been cruel to you. You wouldn't be here if I had.” He straightens back up. There is no threat in the movement. Or if there is, she is indifferent to it. “He told me you killed your tenant.”

“Because of him,” she says, “your _nakama_.”

“Either way, the outcome benefits you.”

She smiles this time, a ghost of the quiet intimacy they used to share. Still share, perhaps, if the answering smile is any indication.

“He left you a gift, a reward if ever you go back.”

“I don't think I deserve it. For now, at least.”

Hannibal turns his gaze to Will Graham, the smile more tender, softer at the edges.

“Where will you go?” she asks.

He looks back at her. “Where will you go? You're free now.”

“I have everywhere to go. You don't.”

“No, indeed.”

“You're staying with him.”

“If he'll have me.”

They both know he won't.

Still, later in the night—so late it is early—Hannibal settles beside Will Graham's bed, and waits.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are all cherished :D


End file.
